Remembering The Rumble
by BoatsAgainstTheCurrent
Summary: It was the bloodiest rumble Tulsa had ever seen. And it had some major consequences.
1. Prologue

It was the bloodiest rumble Tulsa had ever seen. And it had some major consequences.

Prologue: How Did I Get Here?

How did I get here? I ask myself that every damn morning. It's cold and boring where I am. I don't have many people to talk to except that really grumpy man who comes by three times a day to shove a tray of lumpy, gray food towards me. He doesn't say much though. He usually just gives me an angry stare, tells me to eat my food, and then walks away.

Yep, it's a lonely life and I've come to realize, quickly I might add, that I can't remember anything about my past except for one incident sometime, somewhere, somehow. All I can remember is showing up at a park and pummeling some guy to lumps. Sometimes I see his face in my nightmares. After all, he's the only thing I got left to think about. He may or may not have been a good guy. He may or may not even exist. I could have dreamed the whole incident up and actually not remember anything. What the hell do I know?

Anyway, I wait my life away in this tiny cell, wondering how long I've been here and if there is anyone out there who cares about me, or anyone I care about. Sometimes I like to lie down on my thin hammock at night and wrap myself in the thin rag-like blanket, trying to imagine someone I would care about, or someone who's thinking about me. Was there a great girl in my life? Did I have a loving family? Maybe I was a happy little boy living on the nicer side of town and I got a bunch of presents every Christmas. Maybe I did great in school, got all A's, and was all set to go to college. Maybe I had scholarships. Maybe I played football or music or liked to write novels. Of course I don't know any of the actual answers, because for some reason no one out there knows or is willing to tell me.

The wondering about my life keeps me busy for hours on end. I like to give myself a new life every night, pretend like it's always changing. One night I'm a rich casino owner, another I'm a poor farm boy. One night I'm a lonely hood in the big city, another I'm dancing through the corn fields of the countryside. It all depends on my mood.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about where I am. For all I know, I could be half way around the world for my original location. For twenty three hours of the day I am stuck in the grim prison building. There are hardly any windows and everything is a gloomy shade of gray. I never knew there could be so many different kinds of such a color until I arrived here... Whenever that was. Time is difficult to keep track of in prison. The other hour of the day is a brief period outside in the courtyard where we inmates are forced to exercise. It feels a lot like I imagine a boot camp to be. I haven't made very many friends. I choose to keep to myself, especially since I've got no long term memory left and it makes me feel out of place.

I see a counselor-type person every week for two hours at 5 PM on the dot. Not much happens, he's just there to get my to try to remember some things about my past, but we haven't made any progress in weeks. I keep telling him the only thing I remember is the fight I got in, but he's not giving up. I don't know why. I probably would

I'm sick of not knowing. I don't have a problem remembering the recent past but not a thing comes to me from before that only damn memory I have.

I have to keep reminding myself of my name. Had the police not told me they knew me before I landed here, I wouldn't know even that basic fact about myself. "Dallas Winston," I whisper to myself every night to keep it fresh in my mind, "That's my name. Dallas Winston."

How did you get here, Dallas? Why are you here? Why is no one telling you anything? If the police know you from before, shouldn't they know at least some stuff from your life? What the hell happened?  
How did you get here?


	2. The Biggest, Bloodiest Rumble

**Thank you to Ladybugs and Sethclearwaterforever for favoriting. I really appreciate it. That was the prologue, so now I give you chapter one. **

**Chapter 1 : The Biggest, Bloodiest Rumble Tulsa Had Ever Seen**

**3rd person. **

Dally sauntered down that street as if he owned the whole town. Which he did, in his mind. Yeah, Dallas Winston wasn't afraid of a nice battle now and again. It gave him a nice rush when he had the opportunity to pummel some unlucky bastard he despised with everything he had to the ground.

That's how he felt on a cool spring's evening, swooshing past houses and cars and trees as he made his way to the north side park. The park was fairly small, holding only a set of swings, one of which was broken. But it was open enough for a good rumble between the Socs and the greasers.

It was dark and gloomy looking as he walked up, and the only thing that stood out to him was the separation of gangs. At least fifteen Socs created a wall along one side of the park while the greasers brought up the other half. Dally grinned, always proud of himself for making a lasting impression when he walked in on a rumble late.

"You were supposed to be here five minutes ago, you bastard," Tim Shepherd hissed.

Dally smirked, not remotely phased, as he took a spot next to a fellow greaser.

"And where the hell are the others?" Tim spoke.

The truth was, Dally had left for a rumble without any of his buddies. He hadn't meant to, even though he didn't mind, but they had all had some sort of hold up. Darry had insisted he was busy with bills and shit at home. Two-Bit was drunk out of his mind, even more than usual. Sodapop and Steve were off working at the DX, insisting on the importance of being there, and Johnny and Ponyboy had both conveniently fallen ill.

Dally scoffed as he thought about it, "Excuses."

Either way, he didn't answer Shepherd's question and soon the normal ritual of announcing the rules began.

"Alright, remember, no weapons. Only fists," one of the greasers announced.

Everyone nodded, though they knew it all by memory anyway.  
Dally quickly scanned his surroundings for a comparison of grease to Soc. It looked like there were a few more Socs, and for a second it bothered him before he shoved it off, knowing he could and would take them all on one by one if he had to.

The rumble began with the sound of a foot stepping forward. A hard, unwelcoming face glared back at Dally, looking him straight in the eyes as if to say, "That's right. I'm takin' you on, ya filthy grease."

Dally smirked, "Hit me."

_That poor bastard,_ Dally thought_, I hope he likes the idea of a new face. He's got no idea what he's doin'._

And the battle began. Dally jumped the unknown Soc before he could even blink. He threw him to the ground with one quick shove and began swinging at him until his fists grew tired. He got up and kicked him too many times to count, punched him in the gut and the face. Slammed his head into the ground until it was beyond recognition. The boy was helpless, and his previous look of stony hatred slipped away slightly with every blow.

Dally didn't realize he had taken it too far until the boy was just a bloody lump. His hair was caked to his forehead with blood and his lips and eyes were swollen shut.

Dally stepped away from him slowly, guilt rising in the pit of his stomach. Carefully, he backed away, hearing only a few groans escape from the Soc. His breathing grew heavier. It was all he could hear as the sounds of the other fighters vanished completely. He turned his head to see what was happening around him. It all appeared to be in slow motion, as if a silent movie was playing. It no longer seemed real. Tim Shepherd and his younger brother were also slamming Socs to the ground. And hardly any of them had the ability to fight back.

Dally looked back at the Soc he still didn't know the name of and contemplated what to do. He had never meant to go this far. He was swallowed in guilt as he fell to the ground in dizziness and crawled towards the boy. His switchblade fell from his coat pocket and he picked it up, inching forward. Maybe he could put the poor Soc out of his misery. God, there was so much blood. Blood everywhere. That boy was done. He was a mess, and Dally didn't even have a scratch on him.

His decision came to him just as a force too heavy and strong for description came down on his head. It sent powerful waves down his spine, cracking it and causing him to crumble along the way. The last thing he had heard before the blow was the distant sound of sirens heading his way. But he was out the instant the force made contact with him. He fell limp towards to cement, just like a rag doll. Blankness. Absolute, deafening silence. Who knew silence could be so goddamn loud?

There were only about ten Socs left. Five of them had fled the instant sirens could be heard in the distance. Five of the remaining Socs were sprawled on the ground, one of them being the boy in worst condition. The one who had dared to take on Dallas Winston. The eleven greasers remaining, besides the collapsed Dally, stood in shock as the Soc who had delivered the blow to his head stepped backward, gripping a pan tightly in his fist.

A pan. He had brought a pan to the rumble, clearly against the rules. But what did rules matter now?

"No one messes with Randy," the Soc with the pan whispered down at Dally's limp body, "No one."

His whisper broke crisply through the silence, enough to send chills through everyone in the park.

It was pitch black now. It was hard to even see the silhouettes of each greaser and Soc still left. The only obvious glints of light were the shimmer of Dally's dropped switchblade and the distinct piercing of the police car lights as they grew brighter down the street accompanied by the frightening sound of the sirens, screaming into the night.


End file.
